


The Fifth Stage of Grief

by lori (zakhad)



Series: Canon Flirtations [4]
Category: Star Trek: The Next Generation
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-13
Updated: 2017-01-13
Packaged: 2018-09-17 03:23:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9302027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zakhad/pseuds/lori
Summary: Talking around the assimilation trauma for too many stories led me to thinking about writing something specifically about dealing with that. One of Silverfairy22's suggestions sort of merged with it, and it will probably mutate even farther from it, but here you go....





	

**Author's Note:**

> I Borg at the end of season five, and the subsequent two parter Descent that bridged season six and seven wherein a group of drones broke from the Collective as a result of Hugh's emancipation, have not happened -- this story picks up about the end of season four. BOBW bridges Season three and four.
> 
> You can assume that he went home as he did in Family and that he rolled in the mud, perhaps, felt some temporary relief and thought he was done. But he wasn't. Because he wouldn't be. Really, he wouldn't.
> 
> Elisabeth Kübler-Ross authored a book in the 60s that popularized the five stages of grief. Denial, anger, depression, bargaining, acceptance. Not a scientific analysis of anything, but it certainly seems to hold true in so many situations.

Ms. Nesbitt,

I am writing to ask for clarification of the sources used for the article you published in the latest issue of _Starfleet Command Journal._ I find it highly unlikely that your article is accurate. You claim that disconnecting an active drone from the Collective will experience a cascade failure that will, if not addressed, shut down the biological as well as mechanical parts of the mind. I would contest this, on the basis of having direct experience in this matter.

Captain Jean-Luc Picard, USS Enterprise

 

\-----------

 

"Hello, sir," Deanna said, stopping at his table.

"Counselor," he returned with a nod. "I was about to go -- you appear to be on your way out as well?"

She nodded, and Picard stood, padd in hand. "You're working on something after hours -- dare I hope that it's a vacation of some kind? It's been a long time since you've had some leave."

They strolled together out of Ten Forward, leaving behind the noise of conversations -- it was a busy night. He glanced at her with a sheepish shrug. "Just composing a message."

"One of your old friends?" She led the way into the turbolift. "I thought you were a little too... tense, for it to be that."

Picard sighed. "Angry, you mean. You remember that article that we discussed a few months ago, written by some self-professed expert on the Borg?"

"The one that suggested the only option left to us was the complete annihilation of the Collective. I do. It's not an unusual position, especially in the admiralty."

"Well, there's another one in the latest journal -- I'm contesting some of the content."

The counselor appraised him as she sometimes did when he would say something she thought suggested he might need counseling.

"I don't want to talk about it."

That made her frown. "You know what that means."

"I know you'll think it means that I need to talk about it, that it's residual trauma -- I can assure you that it's just frustration that inaccurate information is being disseminated throughout Starfleet. Starship captains depend on this publication to inform missions."

The counselor sighed. "The last time you contested something in that journal, didn't your comments end up in the following issue and start a kerfuffle between you and Captain Sorel?"

"Kerfuffle? Sorel is Vulcan. It was a civil disagreement between colleagues." It had in fact been a verbal brawl, by Vulcan standards, certainly.

He was certain that Troi's dubious expression wouldn't have happened, if not for the nuisance of being expected to attend counseling appointments. She knew him far too well, and was far too familiar. But at least she said nothing further, and left the lift on deck eight. He went on to deck seven, and headed into his quarters, to consider adding to his message. Or not sending it. It was perhaps more prudent not to incite conflict.

But, in the end, he read the article again, got angry again, added another paragraph about this Nesbitt woman's assumptions that those recovered from the Collective might struggle with returning to their lives -- why wouldn't anyone get help for such a problem? there were difficulties, yes, but it didn't have to be a struggle to the extent that the woman was suggesting -- and sent the message anyway. He'd probably regret it over coffee in the morning, but he couldn't let it stand.

 

\-------------

Captain,

Thank you for your feedback on my article. I am always interested in continuing to inform my work with first-hand information. Since you have declined requests for interviews many times over the past year, I had assumed that a request from me would be unwelcome. However, since you are clearly now expressing an interest, perhaps you might be willing to answer a few questions? I am writing another article that should be ready for publication within the next six months, with assistance from my colleagues who are working with other recovered victims of the Borg at a facility in an undisclosed location.

Again, thank you for your response -- I hope to hear from you soon.

A. Nesbitt, Ph.D.

 

\-------------

 

"The woman admitted that she isn't even working directly with former drones," he informed Troi over coffee. She was supposed to be helping him with pronouncing a ritual greeting correctly, for the next diplomatic effort with a species whose world was close to the Romulan Neutral Zone.

Troi considered that soberly. "She may be collecting and organizing material on behalf of those working with the drones."

"Is that normal?"

"It isn't unusual for people working on a project to collaborate and select one of their number to write up the findings on the behalf of all of them. Given the sensitivity of the subject matter I wouldn't be surprised to find that her name is a pseudonym."

He sighed heavily.

"Is something wrong?"

"She wants to ask me questions."

That brought a smile -- Troi wasn't laughing at him, so much as she was amused by the situation, he decided. "Are you going to let her? At least she requested permission to ask, unlike certain others." There had been, after his recovery from assimilation, a great number of scientists and Starfleet researchers trying to get his attention. He'd ignored them one and all.

"Do you know this woman, Nesbitt?" He thought it was telling that she didn't bother to publish her full name, or use a pseudonym as Troi suggested. The nondescript bio in the publication identified her as a Starfleet psychologist who obtained her degree at the University of Betazed, licensed and specializing in trauma work. Pretty much _every_ psychologist in Starfleet met that description; the university had one of the most popular psychology programs in the Federation. Any response to the article was to be passed through to the author via the publication. 

"I've read her work. I haven't met any of the other people working with recovered drones, I've not had the opportunity -- it's been a busy year for us."

He stared at the coffee in his cup, thinking about the past. Remembering what it had been like to be a drone.

"Captain?"

"How many are there?"

The surprise in her face was expected. He'd never expressed any interest in other people who had undergone the recovery process, actually refused to consider talking to or seeing them. "One hundred forty-eight have been recovered. Another sixty-two have died during surgery. One hundred and sixty-four have died before surgery, by complications related to being recovered from a cube, by committing suicide, or by attacking their rescuers and being shot in self-defense. Suicide by security officer, I suppose."

That made sense to him. "How are they unable to keep them from killing themselves?"

"Pre-surgery drones are able to shut themselves off, essentially. For a while, they would find the deceased drone and assume he or she had simply died due to malfunctions of implants after being separated from the Collective, as some do. Autopsies revealed -- should we talk about this?" She was edging into counseling mode.

"No," he snapped. "We should get back to work. We'll be at Phyrola Ten in the morning." She nodded, resignation in her eyes, and raised her padd to begin again to demonstrate the correct pronunciation of a Phyrolan greeting.

After alpha shift, he paced in his quarters, angry, trying to isolate why. He sat down and re-read the message from Nesbitt. And composed a response. God help him.

 

\-------------------

 

Captain,

I'm happy to hear that you are willing to help. Thank you, so much, on behalf of those we are attempting to save. Starfleet's last Borg encounter resulted in the loss of twenty-seven of the crew of the _Amargosa_ \-- we are desperately trying to save the people recovered by ships who aided in fending off the cube to protect Alpha Nodaris. There are a dozen drones currently in an induced sleep mode, as we attempt to develop a strategy to use once we wake them.

We have had such difficulties. Those who have recovered sometimes experience memory loss that impedes our ability to get information about their experiences of the earlier stages of recovery. As I am sure you are aware, the process is most traumatic. I am finding that the shorter the period an individual spends in the Collective, the more traumatic the experience is to them. I strongly suspect that the suicides that occur are more often those individuals. Our assessment of their bodies post-mortem seems to confirm this.

Perhaps you could describe for me what you remember of the time just prior to Dr. Crusher initiating the surgery. Anything that would help us understand how to ease the suffering of pre-surgery, post-recovery drones would be much appreciated. I have your records of that period, but they do not include anything but the doctor's notations regarding your physical well being. Your counseling records are of course beyond my ability to access.

Thank you again.

A. Nesbitt, Ph.D.

 

\--------------------

 

Dr. Nesbitt,

I am not surprised that you are seeing that shorter stays in the Collective are more traumatizing. The chemicals that the Borg implants use to alter the body in the process of assimilation do many things, among them numbing the tissue -- there was an increasing sense of fuzziness that was quite difficult to fight, the longer I was aboard the cube. I recall very little technical information -- Locutus was a conduit to deal with the human race, not a data node or a -- I suppose I remember more than I thought. Perhaps I will identify the many different kinds of drone some other time. Suffice it to say that there are collections of different kinds of drone, and designations such as Two of Five are denoting drone number two in a set of five data node drones, for example.

At any rate, the period between severing the link with the Collective and being put under for surgery was difficult to manage. Without the subspace link activating the various implants and streaming instructions to my systems, I suspect that the chemicals that were being secreted by glands constructed by the nanoprobes in my body for that purpose were sent into extreme imbalance, causing pain in many parts of the body on top of an incredible amount of fear -- it was strange, to feel that much terror when what little I perceived of my surroundings was not telling me I was in danger, quite the opposite. I did not at that point have the ability to directly access information that would tell me what was happening with that chemical balance though that had been available prior to losing the link, but the implants were attempting to continue to stream instructions to me until they failed several hours later. It may be that a close perusal of Dr. Crusher's records would inform a guess as to which implant might provide such information, and you may be able to revive the implant in the lab and recover data to inform your interventions.

I would be willing to attempt such a task with my second officer's assistance if you are able to ship a set of cranial implants to me. Those that were removed from me were long ago given over to Starfleet for research.

Sincerely,

Captain Jean-Luc Picard

 

\--------------------

 

Picard exchanged a perfunctory greeting with his first officer, upon returning to the _Enterprise_ with Worf and Data. Four days struggling against the heavy gravity had left him bone-weary and in the ship's gravity, feeling strangely light and insubstantial -- the usual reaction to such an experience. He'd had to rely on tri-ox for the duration. He led the group along toward sickbay, for the post-mission check -- he'd strained an ankle, thought it might be a sprain, in the more intense gravity. Data, of course, was unaffected. Worf wouldn't complain if paid to. 

"How'd it go?"

"Just another routine diplomatic endeavor, Number One. More successful than most."

"Are you up for a round of velocity tomorrow morning?" It would take them three days to get to the starbase at which they were supposed to leave off a few transfers, take a few on, repair the aft engine and take a couple days for leave. Traveling at warp without incident meant they could take a little time.

"I'll let you know," Picard replied. Most of his thoughts were on the possibility of a message from Dr. Nesbitt. He had been thinking about the fate of the dozen recovered crew of the _Amargosa_  and whether his suggestion had helped the doctor intervene without triggering suicides in them. 

"You seem distracted," Will said as they entered the lift.

"Hm?"

"I agree with Commander Riker," Data said. 

"You're saying I was distracted on the mission?"

"Not at all, sir. But you are less responsive than you normally are after a mission. While one would not be able to consider you garrulous, it is often the case that you share at least one or two anecdotes with Commander Riker after you return."

Picard glared at Data and left the lift, stalking toward sickbay.

Dr. Crusher was being her professional self, calm and quick to diagnose and treat. The regenerator made quick work of the issue with his ankle, and she turned to check Worf over -- since he had no concerns Picard left immediately, making his way back to his quarters. Will left with him. Obviously he still had something to talk about. 

"Something else, Number One?"

"I have a concern about one of the crew, sir," Will said. That brought them to a halt, and Picard eyed him suspiciously.

"When you have a concern about one of the crew you generally tell me which crew member it is. When you are trying to make a point that I'm the one you're concerned about, and present your case prior to telling me that, it's fairly obvious. Get to the point."

"Okay," Will said uncertainly. "The ship's counselor -- "

"Counselor Troi, yes. I know her fairly well, you know."

Will's frustration knitted his brow and pulled his mouth nearly straight, probably in an effort not to actively scowl at the captain. "You're in a shitty mood. And Deanna told me you abandoned counseling, four weeks ago."

"And it's her job to remind me of that."

"It's her job to provide treatment to the crew. It's the crew's responsibility to maintain their mental health by taking advantage of that service. It's my job to kick your damned ass if you're showing signs of needing counseling. All due respect, sir."

"Consider your responsibilities fulfilled, then. I'm tired, and hungry, and I'll see you in the morning for velocity at nine hundred. Good night, Number One."

He was relieved that the ankle no longer hurt, so he didn't have to compensate and feel pain every other step, stalking toward the lift. "Talk to her tomorrow. Eight hundred hours," Will called after him.

"Cluck, cluck," Picard muttered as the lift doors shut on his view of the first officer scowling as he stood stiffly in the middle of the corridor.

 

\----------------------

 

My dear captain,

When I shared your information and your generous offer of assistance with my colleagues, they were overjoyed -- our computer specialists immediately went about the attempt to access information from brain implants on activity after the link is severed, which has been previously ignored due to the hyper-focus Starfleet has on collecting information on active, linked drones in the attempt to develop better defenses against them. Our medical staff had assumed that immediate changes in tissue and awareness of the individual meant that the implants had ceased to function. The implants have always been inactive by the time they are removed, but you were, of course, correct, they do continue to attempt to do as they are programmed to for some time after the link is gone. Including record data on the status of the various Borg implants and glands, until they shut down. It was not apparent to us that there were actually artificially-created glands at work; the data we have pulled indicates that they are re-absorbed as the body's immune system quickly goes to work again once it is no longer being co-opted by the nanoprobes. 

We have deduced that the unnamed gland that develops on the adrenal glands to secrete the Borg equivalent of adrenaline is at fault for the great fear that you described after the link was severed. The reason for this substitution isn't immediately obvious but we suspect that it is designed to drive the musculature without activating the fight or flight response, to keep the drone completely obedient to all instructions. As the drone is retaken, the Borg equivalent goes to work preparing the drone to defend itself, so the neurons are first flooded with the residual Borg equivalent and then, after the link is severed, also the adrenaline now being manufactured in great quantity reacting to the sudden change of state. This created an effect not unlike a cascade failure, which was the original assumption.

I am happy to say that we were able to counteract this chemistry with the recovered officers from the _Amargosa_  and all have successfully completed surgery without a single suicide. In fact, they are all recovering remarkably, without the extreme trauma reaction that prior recoveries had.

I would like to have invited you to the party that our staff had to celebrate, but I understand that your vessel is far from us. Please know that you were toasted in absentia as our guest of honor. I am attaching notes from the lives you saved. They all wanted to thank you personally. Especially Lieutenant DeGrasse, as she has a three-year-old son who very much needed his mother, as his father died at Wolf 359.

Cordially, and with many thanks,

A. Nesbitt, Ph.D.

 

\-----------------------

 

The chime precipitated a spurt of cursing, but Picard regrouped and requested information he already knew -- it had to be Deanna. "Come," he said in an almost-normal tone.

She was wearing the brilliant turquoise dress today, and an expression that told him yes, she sensed it all, not that he cared anymore. Now he just wanted to be left alone. Let her snoop from a distance.

"Oh, what," he snapped.

Rather than anxiety, or surprise, or intimidation, or any of the other possibilities, her expression was one of woe and understanding. "I was concerned."

"Sit down," he grumbled, pitching the glass -- it hit the carpet and bounced, then rolled away to the opposite end of the room, leaving a trail of whiskey.

She watched that and then sat on the opposite end of the couch, primly, folding her hands in her lap.

"Well?"

Her dark eyes met his with an extra helping of woe.

"You have a job to do. I'm sorry, Counselor." That sounded terse and unpleasant. What a jackass he was.

She turned away. It left him to watch her in profile. She'd always struck him as carrying herself with dignity, and at the moment she was sitting with her chin raised, her eyes shuttered -- his head was spinning a bit, from the whiskey, so when the thought struck him that she was beautiful it lingered, rather than be set aside immediately and ignored.

"I've been corresponding. With Dr. Nesbitt."

Deanna bowed her head, at that. "About her article, still? It wasn't so long and complex an article that there is that much to disagree with."

"I gave her information about my experience after I was recovered, to help her save the lives of some of the crew of the _Amargosa_."

She raised her head to look at him again, with a significant reduction in pathos. "You helped her," she echoed uncertainly.

"She saved them all. Because I helped her understand -- so she would know where to look for the solution."

Her slight consternation wrinkled her forehead. "That should be good news. Why do you feel such anger?"

"You tried to ask me to talk to them. Months ago. You tried to tell me it would help. I was so -- caught up in my own rage, I could have helped so many -- " His hands closed on air, as he struggled to keep his voice down and not scream at her, for being there.

Her pained expression as she nodded only made him feel worse. He expected her to say something, but she didn't. It brought curiosity to the fore, that she'd stopped being a counselor. She always probed and questioned.

"I thought you were here to -- well, do your job."

"You don't want me to pry," she said softly. "It angers you. I know you're so tired of being angry that you want me to leave you alone, so you can work on shutting it away deep inside where it won't bother you. I won't force you to talk about it, Jean-Luc. I think of you as a friend, and I don't like hurting my friends. And I can't really be much of a counselor for a friend anyway."

It left him adrift, suddenly. He felt as though his reality had shifted. Or maybe that was the alcohol -- he really knew better than to imbibe so heavily but desperation and the knowledge that they were on the way to a starbase, and not some crisis or mission, had helped him rationalize it. DeSoto's very expensive birthday present had only improved with age. The scotch had a kick like a Percheron.

"I'm going to tell Will that you don't need counseling, and you're fine working it out yourself. I really don't believe any longer that it has anything to do with the Borg, and so I'll leave you to it. If you need anything you know I'll be here for you anytime." She rose and took several steps before it occurred to him that she was leaving.

"Wait!"

Deanna turned back, looking at him speculatively.

"Stay?"

She returned to her spot on the couch, and now studied him with some guarded interest. "And?"

He swung the whiskey bottle up off the floor and over to her, almost sloshing it out at her. She took it from him and placed it on the end table, out of his reach.

"You've had too much already. And now I'm starting to think I really should have Dr. Crusher come in with -- "

"I don't need anything," he exclaimed. "Just -- stay."

"All right. So what shall we do, now that I'm staying?"

That left him at a loss. "I -- think, that I -- You said, that you were -- before, you said you were helping, you and Beverly were helping them with this project by consulting, with them. About the -- about probes."

She started to smile -- this was her amused one, and it got bigger the longer he spoke. "You are _so incredibly drunk_ right now. I don't even know what you just tried to say."

"I said -- " He thought about it, and realized she was probably correct. Too drunk, too incoherent. She'd been right when she'd told him months ago that sharing a full account of his recovery could be incredibly valuable. She was right about everything else. Probably. "I mean, you know I couldn't, it was too hard, too impossible, I couldn't expect you to," he exclaimed, realizing he was crying. And what the hell was that about? Crying?

Deanna lost the smile and came to him, took his arm, led him into the bedroom. That completely derailed whatever it was he'd been thinking about, because there was Deanna, sitting him on the edge of the bed, and then she was taking off his boots. Taking off his clothes? She pulled down the covers, and tried to tip him in, but he was attempting to take off his shirt. For some reason, he kept losing the edge of it -- couldn't quite sort out the fastener on his pants. Surely her skirt would be easier, it would simply slide off? But his fingers were rather like the rest of him, not quite up to the task.

Deanna forced his feet under the covers, and then she tucked him in. She gave him a fond, sad little smile and put her hand on his shoulder. "It's all right. We'll just pretend this never happened if you like. Get some sleep and I'll see you in the morning. Computer, dim the lights to ten percent. Good night."

Once she'd left he lay there with his brain floating around and his eyes smarting. So he closed them, and let his brain float where it would.

 

\-----------------

 

 Dr. Nesbitt,

I am pleased --

Computer, delete and reset.

Dr. Nesbitt,

It's so good to hear that the -- that I was able to --

Computer, delete and reset.

What the hell is your name anyway?

Computer -- computer -- fuck it.

 

 

\-------------------

 

He woke in the morning sprawled sideways across the bed, the padd under his head -- what a miserable pillow. He shoved himself up with great effort. His head felt like granite and his stomach flopped -- there was an ugly feeling in his mouth, along with the sourness and bile, that told him for the hundredth time in his life span that drinking that much was a completely idiotic coping mechanism.

Picard did a zombie walk through the sonic shower, cleaned his teeth, asked for a black coffee -- food sounded nauseating but he had to force himself to life, if only to prove he could.

Too old for this shit. Too fucking old, too smart -- or at least, he was supposed to be, but clearly he wasn't done with that lesson.

Retrieving the padd, he attempted again to start a message to the doctor. Perhaps it was best to simply do a summary of his experience with assimilation, once and for all, get it over with and pass it along. Then he could be done with the matter forever. Point any future busybodies at it and walk away.

He sat down with his coffee at the desk in the far corner, and turned on the padd. Then put it down, carefully, and held his head in his hands, staring at the neatly-centered box with the neatly-centered word in it, 'sent.'

"FUCK."

 

\-------------------

 

Dr. Nesbitt,

Please accept my apology for the incoherent message you are likely staring at in confusion. I am afraid that I have been struggling with a variety of stressors, the most pressing of which weighs on me every evening, as I attempt to come up with a way of expressing something to someone -- I am doomed to failure and know well enough that it's completely out of the question, for several reasons, for me to expect that it might end in a manner I would find satisfactory.

In any case, I am now intending to provide you with a comprehensive narrative of my experience with assimilation, as much as I can remember of it. I regret that I was previously unable to face such a task. I have been in counseling since I was recovered, and it has been a beneficial and challenging experience. The rational side of me knows now at least that I was refusing to face things that were traumatic, refusing to provide any help to your project because I could not face the fact that I was helpless. The guilt and rage that I was unable to stop them from using me to attack my own ship, my own crew, my own friends -- it took many months to accept and let it go, and I must say that Counselor Troi is one of the finest in the fleet, her patience, and her persistence are the only reason I am able to face this task. She has encouraged me so many times to do this likely because it would be therapeutic in itself, to unburden myself completely.

I now find myself feeling guilt that I have not forced myself to do as she asked, long ago. I have been staring at the list of names of people who could have been recovered -- would have had a better chance, at least, had I stopped being so unreasonably angry and avoidant. This, too, will have to be something that I must live with. I suppose I am going back to counseling for a while.

I will contact you with the completed narrative when it is finished. I hope that it will not take too much of our valuable time to finish it.

Sincerely,

Captain Jean-Luc Picard

 

\-----------------------

 

The chime broke his concentration -- he bit back a curse, and the instant Will came in the door he realized that he had forgotten everything else. Will took a position standing in the center of the room with crossed arms, putting all his weight on his right leg, frowning.

"I'm sorry, Will. I'm in the middle of something important -- can we reschedule?"

Less concern in Will's face, now. "Something's up?"

"I'm writing a narrative of the assimilation experience, from beginning to end. It's for the drone reclamation project that developed over the past year since Wolf 359. The handful of Borg incursions have been fended off, barely, thanks to Data's research and the innovation of the Corps of Engineers, and there have been people recovered from them -- I'm afraid that I have been remiss in not doing this sooner."

"I suppose I thought you'd already provided them with information. They seem to be doing well, from what Deanna has said."

"They could be doing better. Too many people have died." He stopped short of confessing the full story. That wasn't yet something he could face with equanamity.

"Well, when would you like to reschedule to? Tomorrow?"

"Perhaps this afternoon? Even if I'm not finished I should take a break -- I suspect I'll need it."

Will gave him a steady, unfathomable look. "All right. Just give me a shout. Did you talk to Deanna this morning?"

That was like a bucket of ice water over the head -- he knew some of his frustration had to show, but he said, "I completely forgot about that, I'll call her and see if she has time later today."

"See you later, then."

 After the door closed, Picard returned to his self-appointed task with a vengeance, until he couldn't deny the hunger any longer and replicated lunch. He managed to get as far as waking up in post-op before the chime went off again. "Come," he called out automatically. The person came in, and he took a drink of the water sitting on the corner of his desk as he saved his work and set aside the padd, then looked up to find himself looking in the eyes of Deanna Troi.

"Oh."

"I know you're very caught up in what you're doing. But I hoped that we could talk for a moment, if you don't mind?"

"Of course." He gestured at the couch, and then the replicator.

"No, thank you," she replied, moving to sit and smoothing her skirt needlessly. "I would like to explain something that I've been unable to -- I think the timing is about right."

"I can guess... I'm sorry that I've been so stubborn and shut down."

Deanna gave him a cynical look. "You ran, repeatedly. Out of my office, out of Ten Forward -- "

"I know, I know. If it helps, I promise that I will endure. This time."

Her ire faded. "I understand, and I know that's part of the problem, but you need to hear this. I'm going to start at the beginning. You need some of the background first. All right?"

He glanced at the end table, and the scotch was missing. She followed his gaze and shook her head. 

"I took it with me so you wouldn't poison yourself last night. You'll get it back when you're off probation."

"Hell," he muttered. "I suppose it's just as well."

She put her hands together and nodded, the beginnings of a smile on her lips. "When I published the first paper, following your assimilation, I was dismayed by the attention it got, and the way everyone started to talk to me about you. I hadn't mentioned you specifically in the paper but everyone who responded assumed -- correctly, of course -- that I was referring to you. Then there were doctors and counselors starting to work with other recovered drones, from a subsequent incident where the _Gallant_  recovered individual drones from a cube, and they began to consult with me often. And then the conversation turned to how to approach future publications. I told them of my experience and out of a need to preserve safety and confidentiality, Dr. Nesbitt was born. I didn't want anyone to attack or confront anyone else based on assumptions, and I certainly didn't want you to be approached, or any of the other casualties. It's why all the drones and former drones have alpha-numeric designations. I regret being similar to the Collective in any way, but in the end it was decided that it was safer than using even fictional names."

"So, who have I been corresponding with?"

"I've been editing the works of others and publishing my own using that name for the past nine months."

He exhaled, sagging, put a hand over his eyes briefly -- it was a relief, really. "At least I haven't embarrassed myself in front of someone new."

She laughed at it with him, gently. "I thought you might have guessed already, from what you said in the last one. That makes it so much more meaningful to me, that you thought you were telling someone else."

"Why didn't you say anything?"

"I thought about it, after you started to talk to 'her' more, and volunteer information. But you were so anxious in my presence that I left it alone -- you were saying things that told me you actually don't need to work on trauma, any more. All of the anxiety you've been having had to do with...."

"I'm sorry." He couldn't really look at her any more. Found himself staring down at a stain on the carpet, between the table and the couch. Wine, perhaps. 

"I'm afraid I don't understand why you have had such difficulty speaking to me about it. You know that I've known, and yet you can't talk to me -- when I tried to speak to you before, as a counselor trying to address it in session, you were literally speechless and it shocked me. I've never seen you react this way."

He searched for a place to start with it, and found nothing. Except what had come up, repeatedly, in his mind, and so he said it. "It's impossible."

"What's impossible?"

"My feelings are pointless," he whispered, finally looking at her. Her expression told him little. "You aren't -- you're my counselor."

She blinked slowly. "I was your counselor. Five months ago you started to feel otherwise, and you haven't had a productive session since. I could try out of obligation, and you could, but trying to get you to speak to me about and possibly work through the impediment or simply get you to agree to see Dr. Fann instead proved to be impossible, because you were somehow under the impression that you couldn't talk about it. I admit that I thought you might get over it, or transfer to Dr. Fann, or even transfer me, elsewhere."

"I couldn't," he blurted. "I could never -- " His thoughts started to work along the possibilities she mentioned, and to identify others. And to consider the mere fact that she had never done as he might have expected her to do, started to avoid him, or change how she behaved in his presence, or ask for a transfer herself. Also, she was looking at him with complete acceptance and openly smiling at him with her usual affection. She must be sensing the slow realization and the shift from anguish to hope. Her smile broadened.

"There you are," Deanna said, her eyes bright. "Mr. Hill saves the day."

He grinned and it occurred to him that this simplified things immensely. "You can help me."

"I have done so, yes. Likely I will continue to."

"Yes, well, since you're here, I can have you start to read that summary, highlight things that need clarification. I'll keep working on the first draft. And then we can have dinner. And talk about other things."

"With chocolate?"

"And wine. Some wine goes very well with chocolate."

"All right," she said, with a hint of suggestiveness and a sly smile. 


End file.
